Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Jordan
Forge’s apartment building is nothing like I expected.
From the outside, it looks like any other converted warehouse in the Zone—red brick, industrial windows, the kind of place developers would call “loft living” if it were in a trendier neighborhood.
But as we climb the stairs to the third floor, I catch glimpses through open doorways of families preparing dinner, children playing, the ordinary sounds of people living their lives.
The stairwell carries the mingled signs of different lives—the cumin of cooking, harsh soap, baking bread—the warm smell of home. Threaded through it all is something distinctly Forge: wood shavings and clean male musk, a scent that makes something flutter low in my belly.
“It’s not much,” Forge says as he unlocks his door, his tone threaded with hesitation. “But it’s home.”
The moment I step inside, I forget every word I was planning to say.
It’s small but transformed from a low-rent apartment into something that belongs in a design magazine.
Every piece of furniture is clearly handmade—a dining table with intricately carved legs, chairs that look like they grew from trees, a coffee table inlaid with different woods in a pattern resembling flowing water.
His scent is stronger here, wrapping around me like a physical presence. This is his space, built for someone his size, and I can see how he moves differently here—more confident, more sure of himself.
“Forge,” I breathe, turning in a slow circle. “This is incredible.”
He closes the door behind us, running a hand over his braids. “You really think so? I know it’s not fancy—”
“Not fancy?” I walk over to the dining table, trailing my fingers along the carved edge.
The wood is smooth as silk, warm under my touch.
Every polished curve makes me think about his hands on my own curves—how careful he’d be, how patient.
“This is the most beautiful furniture I’ve ever seen. You made all of this?”
“Most of it. The couch is store-bought,” he admits, as if that’s somehow a failure.
I look at the couch—a simple, comfortable-looking piece in deep brown leather that somehow manages to complement the handmade furniture perfectly. “You have impeccable taste. And incredible skill.” I turn to face him. “How long does something like this table take to make?”
He approaches the piece, pride and modesty warring in his expression. This is his domain and watching him move through it with such quiet confidence makes desire coil through me, arrowing straight between my thighs.
“The table? About three months, working evenings and weekends. The chairs were another month each.”
“Three months.” I shake my head in amazement. “I can barely commit to a TV series for three months, and you spent that long creating something this beautiful.”
“It just takes patience. And practice.”
“It’s art. Can I see more?” I ask.
His face lights up. “There’s a desk in the bedroom. And I’m doing finish work on some things in the spare room…”
He leads me through the apartment, pointing out details I never would have noticed—the way the grain flows through a cabinet door, the tiny carved flowers hidden in the base of a lamp. Everything he touches becomes beautiful under his hands.
“This is where I do the detail work—carving, finishing, small projects. I have a bigger workshop downstairs for the heavy machinery and lumber storage, but this is where a lot of the magic happens,” he says, opening the door to what should probably be a second bedroom.
The room is organized chaos—workbenches covered with tools I can’t begin to identify, wood shavings scattered across the floor, the rich smell of timber and finish. In the center, half-completed, sits what looks like a baby cradle.
“Oh,” I say softly, approaching it carefully. “This is gorgeous.”
“It’s for Chief Brokka and Marissa. Their baby’s due in a few months.
” His voice goes gentle when he talks about it, the same tone he used with Thessa during the rescue.
“Brokka mentioned that Marissa had been looking at cribs online, but everything was either plastic or particleboard. I thought… I thought they might like something that would last. You know, creating new heirlooms here on Earth.”
I trace the carved railing with one finger. The wood is golden, smooth, and the sides are decorated with tiny carved animals—lions and elephants and what might be baby dragons. “They’re going to love this. Their child is going to sleep in something made with so much care, so much love.”
When I look up, Forge is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Something warm and surprised and a little awed.
“What?” I ask.
“You called it love.”
“Isn’t it? Look at this workmanship, the time you’ve put into it, the thought behind every detail. If that’s not love, what is it?”
He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his massive frame, catch his scent more strongly. The size difference between us has never been more apparent, and it sends an unexpected thrill through me.
“I never thought of it that way.”
“You should. This—” I gesture around the workshop, then back to the cradle. “This is what love looks like when it’s made of wood and craftsmanship and countless hours of careful work.”
Something changes in the air between us. The workshop suddenly feels smaller, warmer, charged with an awareness that has nothing to do with furniture but everything to do with his eyes on me.
“I should probably clean up,” he says quietly, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m filthy and still smell of smoke from the fire.”
The words clean up spark a vivid image. Heat floods through me as I imagine him under the spray, water coursing down leaf-green, inked muscle.
“Go ahead,” I say, settling onto his handmade rocker. “I’ll just admire your handiwork.”
After he disappears down the hallway, the sound of the shower drifts to my ears, and my traitorous mind immediately conjures images I have no business picturing. How far do those tattoos go—across his chest, down his arms, maybe further? The thought makes my skin prickle.
I shift restlessly in the rocking chair, trying to ignore the building heat building between my thighs. The sound of water running just down the hall is doing things to my imagination that should probably worry me more than they do.
I take a steadying breath and force myself to focus on the room around me instead of the naked orc currently standing under hot water not twenty feet away.
But even examining his furniture doesn’t help, because every beautiful piece reminds me of his hands—those large, careful hands that carved these intricate details.
For a moment, my skin flushes hot as I imagine those massive hands mapping every curve of my body.
The shower shuts off, and I hear footsteps in the hallway.
“I forgot to grab clean clothes,” he calls. “Just give me a second to—”
The words die as he appears in the living room doorway, and every coherent thought I’ve ever had abandons ship.
He’s wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped around his waist, and I forget how to breathe. Beads of water trace over dark tattoos, and my lawyer brain absurdly catalogs each line and plane like evidence in a case I’m already losing.
“Sorry,” he says, though the darkness in his gaze and the ragged edge of his breathing tell a different story.
“Don’t apologize,” I manage, my voice coming out husky. “Not for looking like that.”
He notices my stare, and something shifts in his expression. The uncertainty fades, replaced by an awareness that mirrors my own. “I should get dressed.”
“You should,” I agree, but neither of us moves. If anything, he stands a bit straighter, which makes his shoulders look even broader, and makes the towel slip a fraction lower on his hips.
The air between us feels charged, heavy with possibility and the weight of everything we haven’t said.
I can see the rise and fall of his chest, notice the way his hands tighten slightly on the towel at his waist. Notice how the water droplets catch the light as they slide down his chest, and how the tattoos seem to move with the play of muscle beneath his skin.
“Jordan,” he says quietly, and there’s something in his voice that makes my pulse quicken.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to get dressed now.”
“Good idea.”
“Unless you don’t want me to.” His gaze holds mine, and it’s as though the air turns solid.
My pulse spikes. The moment hums with a possibility I shouldn’t lean into, but the image of those hands on my bare skin instead of clutching a towel nearly unravels me.
The words hang between us—a question and an invitation and a challenge all at once. I look at him—this gentle, talented, handsome male who creates beauty and saves lives—and feel something settle into place inside my chest.
“We should probably eat dinner first,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
His smile is slow and heated. “Probably. We both missed lunch.”
“Definitely.”
“I’ll be right back.”
When he disappears down the hallway, I slump back into the chair and try to remember how to breathe normally.
This is not how I expected this evening to go.
Months ago, I was certain I never wanted another relationship.
Two days ago, I’d never heard of Forge Ironwood.
Now I’m sitting in his apartment wanting things I thought I’d left behind forever.
He returns wearing jeans and a soft gray Henley that clings to his frame in ways that don’t help my blood pressure. But he’s composed himself, and the moment of charged tension has passed into something more manageable.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much,” I lie.
“Good. I was thinking of pasta with mushroom sauce. Nothing fancy.”
“Everything you do is fancy,” I say without thinking, then flush at how that simple sentence gave so much of me away.